


A Cure For What Ails Ya

by boxbubble



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: mcfassy, M/M, Mild Language, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:37:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxbubble/pseuds/boxbubble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU McFassy. Michael is an arrogant, successful lawyer who becomes sick at work and is forced to go home. He orders a well educated but newbie Dr. James to make a house call and give him a clear bill of health expecting him to fold to his demands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cure For What Ails Ya

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the Mcfassy Comm DD #11 with Doctor!James and Devilish!Fassy seen [here](http://mcfassy.livejournal.com/11026.html).
> 
> Originally posted in McFassy Comm [here](http://mcfassy.livejournal.com/21787.html#cutid1) re-edited version for archive in AO3.

  
Palms clammy and thankful for the lab coat covering the line of sweat forming on his back and undoubtedly soaking into his oversized blue button down shirt, James’ breath comes out in huffs as his bag rhythmically thumps against his thigh. Impatient he runs up the steps leading to the... well not house. He can’t properly call it that when his whole flat could probably fit into one of its gold fixtured, porcelain rounded bathrooms. Mansion than, or castle. It looks like the place may have at one time held an oubliette or two, complete with mouldering skeletons underneath hatched grates.

Making it to the front stoop and fervently hoping that he doesn’t look as deranged as he thinks he does, James fiddles with his crooked tie in a futile attempt to straighten it. He knows there are bags under his eyes from his double shift in the intensive care unit and that his hair is a fright from the reckless ride he made on his Vespa, broke intern that he is, to make it in time for the eleven in the evening appointment. It is only a vague and distant hope at this point that he hasn’t got any blood on him; he doesn’t want to appear a complete axe murderer.

It’s not something usually done, a private house call for a non-urgent case, and certainly not at this time of night. But then again the patient isn’t usually Lord Michael Fassbender, Earl of Bessborough and eminently successful prosecutor widely considered as a shoe in for the High Court before he hits the age of forty. Also not coincidentally one of the hospital’s most generous donator’s if the new Fassbender pediatric wing was anything to judge by. He had never met the lord before but had visited the hospital during the new wing’s opening ceremony. The idea of meeting him like this, alone in his home, was still a daunting one.

The feeling of agitation in James’ stomach only increases as he looks for a knocker or door bell in front of the wide double doors and finds none. Already unnerved by being let in by a gate guard at the entrance to the grounds, and having an honest to God valet take his vehicle to be parked. (If he never remembers the embarrassment of handing over the keys to that blank faced, judging gaze and watching the valets’ tailored suit coat *vrppp* away into the distance, it will be far too soon.) Just as he thinks about pounding on the door itself with his bare fist, it opens startling him back a step. A tall, thin mild looking young man looks out from thick browline glasses. Though he would look more at home in a comic book convention, he is dressed like a butler and acts to form by replying “Dr. McAvoy, the lord’s been expecting you.” He says The Lord like it should be capitalized and shuffles back, opening the door wider to let James in.

Following closely behind the butler and almost grasping his sleeve for fear of becoming lost in the increasingly convoluted maze of rooms and halls, James feels progressively more and more out of place. Everywhere he looks is a bust, portrait or piece of medieval armory, and in the gardens and courtyards interspersed throughout the estate he glimpses a seemingly interminable array of naked Homeric statues peeing into fountains (except for an odd crying satyr. It’s features contorted in a parody of torture but nonetheless still rather well *endowed* if his quick perusal showed him anything).

The butler, who introduces himself as Nicholas, finally leads him into what appears to be a sitting room. He stops in front of an ornately decorated wall that to James’ surprise hides a blind door and pushes inward to slide the panel open. Turning swiftly he informs James to stay there while he announces his presence to Lord Fassbender.

Feeling tense and still questionably sweaty, James takes the opportunity to examine the room more closely. Situated to the right near some monstrously bulky stiff backed chairs is a mirror (gilded and likely made of silver or gold or something equally obscenely expensive) which James immediately takes advantage of, turning a critical eye to his reflection. He focuses on the stethoscope around his neck and feels a little silly, like he is overcompensating having it out like a talisman during a routine house call. Looking at his wrecked appearance and ill fitting suit however, he decides to leave it on, as proof of his profession if nothing else.

James then glances down at the satchel in his hand and wonders if the vintage leather carpet bag he spent so much time and effort acquiring simply makes him look pretentious instead of competent. But he knows he has a steep hill to climb and could use all the help he can to look the part. Right out of med school (even if at the top of his class) with a small stature and slightly chubby cheeked features dominated by large baby blue eyes, he looks all of twelve, a child playing Doctor in his father's suit and he knows it.

On that depressing note Nicholas returns, stepping out seemingly from the wall itself before ushering him inside and shutting the door behind him, leaving him alone with the sole occupant. Concentrating on his surroundings James notes that he has entered a study. Like everything else in the mansion it is richly paneled with bay windows covering one entire wall and shelves of books lining the other three.

Or it should be a study at least, but it looks more like a court. A long stretch of empty space dominates the center, save for two low slung chaise lounges on either side. A raised dais on the other end of the room holds a desk and chair made of some dark exotic wood. The chair, which can only be described as a throne, is ornately carved and padded with leather. Reclining on that chair with the assurance of a king and looking positively Machiavellian in a dark suit and darker gaze, is the man whom he assumes to be Lord Fassbender. The grey eyes (or are they blue? The color seems to shift in the light) casually traces his form, slowly making its way from his scuffed hush puppies and up his abdomen before finally settling on his face. But not before lingering an inappropriate amount of time on sensitive areas along the way.

James has never felt so violated in his life.

Feeling molested and flushed he focuses his attention to the carpeting, looking at everything but that defiling stare. Before he can completely ignore it however, James eye catches at the slight smirk that quirk’s the edges of Michael’s mouth. The other man's enjoyment of the bright obvious staining of his cheeks, ears and the tip of his nose is obvious in the leer. In that arrogant countenance James sees the gaze of a man supremely confident in his mastery of all he survey’s and it turns the sickly burn of mortification in his chest into pure rage.

It suits his luck that his first ever house call would be to the devil himself.

-

Michael sits darkly on his throne, feeling ill and irritated. Like a prodded beast he knows it won’t take much to set him off and tries to calm himself. Contemplating how he got into this mess in the first place. The trial set tomorrow is the culmination of seven months worth of investigation, blood, sweat and tears on his part. If he succeeds it will be the pinnacle of his career as a prosecutor and his finest work to date. Unfortunately becoming sick is not an option, and he’ll kill himself before he lets that smug bastard Kevin Shaw delay one day, one second past the time of his reckoning. Not for nothing was he called the Shark of Kildare, endlessly circling his prey and attacking at the first sign of blood in the water.

He had pushed hard all week to cover all his bases, ignoring the cold he had contracted the weekend before. Passing out at the office in front of the judge was the worst sort of miscalculation. Forbidden to return until he had a clear bill of health, he knew come hell or high water he was going to be in court at 2 O’clock sharp the next afternoon. With his regular physician away on vacation in Germany, he had called the hospital and demanded an appointment that night with any doctor that was available. Even luckier it seemed the only one on duty that could be spared was a new intern, straight from Glasgow. He’d only been working for the hospital for some three to four months and was the perfect fit for easy intimidation.

He is shaken from his thoughts as the buzz from his intercom informs Michael that the doctor has arrived at the gate and was heading towards the house. Confident that all would be in hand, and that a physician’s note would be secured in time for the trial, Michael relaxed. He indulged in his favorite pastime of late, looking fondly out the casement down at his newest sculpture.

Michael adored secrets, treasured most what he could keep hidden away. His private study was one such sanctuary, concealed behind a false wall panel that doubled as a door. Another was the satyr even now spilling tears into its black marble base, situated in the English garden right below his window.

So it came as doubly a surprise when Nick showed up, stooping low through the small doorway and mumbled that the good doctor was in, before pushing forward his latest obsession right there in the flesh. All thoughts of fever and fatigue left his body as a different sort of heat took its place.

He had seen McAvoy the year before, though at the time he hadn’t known he was a doctor in training. At the opening ceremony of his new wing, after the cutting of the ribbon and downing slightly too many obligatory toasts, he had left the main atrium. Moving through a little used hallway while trying to clear his head of the champagne, he had caught sight of the man there. That the gentleman stretched out in the waiting room, half on a gurney, one leg dangling off the side and looking for all the world like a passed out little drunk, was the doctor now assigned to see to him completely blindsided him. At the time, barefoot, dressed in scrub pants that had pulled down sometime in his twisting and turning and wearing a plain light blue surgical smock that gaped open at the back, he had looked like a patient. Possibly from the psychiatric ward given his strange dress and sleeping manner.

Although not usually given to gawking, Michael had spent an embarrassingly long time in his inebriated stupor exploring the exposed line of the man’s spine. Counting each ridge before tracing the right edge of his Apollo’s belt with his eyes, following the sinuous line to where it disappeared under the drawstring pants (where he had noted the man wasn’t wearing underclothes).

At the time Michael didn’t know who he was but there was an undeniable draw to that face and body that inspired in him an emotion. What emotion it was he could not explain, except that it warmed his heart and filled him with longing. Or no, he could explain it. He simply wanted to make that young man _cry_.

He wanted to have him wail to the skies and sobbing with misery and frustration, he wanted to utterly _ruin_ him with sex. Not exactly the most healthy or tender emotions, nonetheless he had to have him. After stumbling home with his driver he had immediately commissioned the piece for his garden, paying handsomely for quick results and the exact shaping of tormented ecstasy on that sweet face.

Now having his fantasy before him, taking in the bruised eyes and wild hair of the doctor and finally identifying the color of the eyes he had glimpsed under long lashes all those months before. James McAvoy resembled nothing so much as a mad cherub, fresh from the tidings of hell if you accounted for the blood spattered across the left edge of his otherwise pristinely white, if wrinkled, lab coat.

The sudden jump from such a low point to such a high almost gave him whiplash, and Michael truly felt blessed to be himself that day. He observed the damp skin at James’ brow and the nervous, stuttering motions of his arms as he awkwardly shifted from foot to foot. Taking this as the show of weakness it was, Michael decided to play a bit.

Taking his time he started a slow examination of the doctor. From the subtle folds of clothe over the groin, the tight belt bunching the blue shirt at the waist, to a button slightly askew leaving a gap where a hint of pale flesh curved around a rib and finally to the long slender length of his throat, soft and vulnerable beneath an open collar. Looking upwards at last Michael is surprised at the heated glare blazing at him from those impossibly azure eyes. A thrum of excitement beat through his chest and groin at the thought of a challenge. His smile turning positively wicked in response.

-

What a BASTARD! This one thought rang impossibly loud in his head. Unable to contain himself at such blatant sexual harassment, James made a vow right then and there that he was going to make his treatment as uncomfortable and embarrassing as he could, and that Hippocratic Oath or no, he was gonna knock this man down a peg or three.

Stalking forward James jumps onto the dais and slams his bag onto the table with an anticlimactic soft thud as the wood muffled the impact of the leather. In the sudden silence, and feeling flustered at Lord Fassbender’s amused smile, he opens the bag with considerably more gentleness. Forcing his voice into a more placid state James states “I hear you have a problem, sir. My name is Dr. McAvoy and I will be treating you this evening. Would you mind describing how you’re feeling right now?”

-

Tilting his head and obviously deciding to go along with the farce for now, Fassbender replies in a low voice, “Well I was feeling quite bored until you arrived, but now I must say I’m feeling quite aroused…” Seeing and delighting in the rapid paling and reddening of James' features Michael quickly tacks on “That is I’m feeling quite flushed and warm at the moment” he adds a charming grin to the last word and sprawls more completely in his seat.

-

Pissed at seeing how Michael spreads himself so wantonly on his overgrown office chair, James can’t help but feel a slight frisson of attraction as well as exasperation at the man’s confidence. He grits his teeth and says in his most professional manner “Well that won’t do. Open your collar…no” he interrupts himself at the sudden gleam in Michael’s eye. “I’ll be taking your temperature first.” He decides as he finally notices how pale and hollow eyed the lord looks. Sifting through his bag, he comes out with a sphygmomanometer and an electronic thermometer. Briefly toying with the idea of using the anal one, James takes another look at Lord Fassbender and seeing the slight glazing of his eyes, feels his heart softening. No he thinks, better get this over with as fast as I can. Besides he shuddered at the prospect of Fassbender actually enjoying such a scenario.

Telling Fassbender to open his mouth and resolutely ignoring the positively filthy look the lord sent at him at that, he quickly stuffs the thermometer in before the man has the chance to speak further. Pressing it under the tongue, he's shocked when the numbers climb over 40 C. “How long have you had this fever? Have you been feeling any chills, disorientation or upset stomach?” James asks worriedly. “It came upon me suddenly today and no, not particularly.” Looking suspiciously at the Earl’s bland tone, James responds “You’ve got quite a high temperature. Was there any incident recently that may’ve precipitated this?” Fassbender’s mild “Nothing comes to mind,” only raises James misgivings.

Unconvinced James frowns “There must be a reason you called so suddenly for a doctor this late at night.” At this Lord Fassbender looks up, face devoid of emotion and states quite plainly in a lone menacing rumble, “Look I understand you need to do this whole procedure and what not, but I need to be in court tomorrow so if you could be so kind as to sign on the dotted line” he removes a piece of paper from off the desk along with a pen and places it in front of James “explaining I am in perfect health, of sound mind and body then we can go on to much more _pleasurable pursuits_ ” tone suddenly turning pleasant he practically purrs the last two words.

Feeling shocked and insulted James blurts out, “I can’t in good conscience declare a man fit for work when he’s as obviously ill as you are. Your temperature is already dangerously high, if it remains like this we’ll have to get you to the hospital.”

Fassbender glares at him all traces of amused flirtation gone, “I’m perfectly fine. I have a strong constitution. You don’t have to do anything but sign the paper. I won’t ask you again.” Despite his level voice Fassbender manages to include a touch of warning in his words.

A feeling of nausea rises at the threat but James' stubborn streak surges up to the surface and his mouth forms an immediate pout. Michael’s aura of untouchability falters a bit in the face of it, as he stares fascinated at his lips. Trying to ignore the Earl’s obvious perversion and his own impulse to bash that stupid, beautiful face in with his rubber mallet at such idiotic disregard for one’s own health, he sternly responds, “Did you take any cold medicine? Some aspirin at the very least?”

-

“I never use any medication. You might ask my butler if we have any in the house.” Feeling cheerier already and slightly distracted by the doctor’s nervous chewing of those aforementioned lips, Michael’s response is glib.

“No, that won’t be necessary; I do carry at least the basic necessities on me.” A pink tongue peeks out and swipes at the corners of the red slightly puffy mouth. “In fact I think I know just the right medicine for you. If you take it and your fever goes down within the hour. I will sign the release.” The sly tone immediately puts Michael on the defensive and his gaze snaps up away from those lips. Too late to catch the doctor’s expression though, as he is already digging through his bag. Feeling wary and beginning to feel some serious sexual frustration, he studies the bottle Dr. McAvoy triumphantly takes out of the bag. In the next instant a pair of rubber gloves and Vaseline joins it on the table.

Feeling excited despite himself he growls out, “Absolutely not. I’m sure you have some oral medication.” The idea is not bad, in fact it’s downright intriguing. If the one on the receiving end were the doctor that is.

Setting the bottle down gently McAvoy levels a piercing stare back at him. Michael instinctively draws out his most arrogant scowl, mouth in a thin flat line and glowers back, hand rising to rest his chin on. The contest of wills stretches the silence between them.

Michael has never been so hard in his life.

He’s thankful for his crossed legs otherwise James would be hard pressed to miss the rather impressive erection that he is sporting, straining as it is at the front of his slacks. James without looking reaches into his bag and pulls out a syringe and small glass bottle.

“Very well you’re still going to have to pull down your pants though.” A strange feeling washes over Michael as his cock simultaneously twitches in arousal at the ‘pull down your pants’, while his fingers flinch in alarm at the thought of being stuck.

The corners of his mouth pull slightly upward, “I’d really rather not take any medication. Thank you doctor.” That’s a lie. He’d take the pills if the doctor passed it to him with his mouth, tongue tying itself around his as it relinquishes the bitter capsule, gel coating already dissolving between their entwined tongues as he gently explores the other man’s soft palette. He shakes the fantasy off with effort at the energized air that suddenly builds around Mcavoy’s luminous blue eyes.

-

“…You wouldn’t happen to be afraid of a little needle would you?”  
At Michael’s slightly narrowed eyes and tightening smile, James knows he has him on the defensive now. He feels a huge shit eating grin form on his face.

-

What is with this guy? It’s like the little minx can read his mind. Damn he was really off his game today. The problem with the world Michael thinks, is that God gave men two heads and only enough blood to run one at a time. He has never thought those words to be truer than right now.

-

Seeing the slight shake of Michael’s head and his rueful grimace, James feels suddenly ashamed of himself. He is a healer and he is ridiculing a weakness of his patient. This kind of power play and desire to humiliate isn’t at all what he learned and believed a patient-doctor relationship should be.

-

Michael sees the slight downturn of those eyes and thinks to himself _Yes_.

You see though his chosen profession is as a lawyer, he is a businessman at heart. It is his passion, his means to his wealth and above all else he's _very, very_ good at it. So with a businessman’s acumen honed from years of ruthless competition he can see that what is in Dr. McAvoy's face, is not anger or frustration, but negotiation. It is also the first softening of resolve he’s seen in the man.

-

James, his shot of confidence long gone now, can only look helplessly at the steadily spreading grin that threatens to stretch from ear to ear on Michael's face, showing off a worrying (and impressive) amount of teeth. More a baring of fangs than a proper smile, his trepidation only increases the more Michael’s eyes seem to sparkle with carnal delight. He can’t help but think to himself that he’s made a huge mistake.

-

Michael decides that he’ll take the shot in the backside, after all it would only be fair trade for the ache the doctor will soon be feeling in his. But he will burn in hIfreann before he lets that man anywhere near him with those suppositories… at least not without the proper _encouragement_ of course.

He wonders if James would be willing to play Doctor with him.


End file.
